Stowaway (Ded.)

She held out her hand to retrieve the paper, then drew Tink’s boyfriend. The pixie dust keeper. For some reason, she couldn’t remember his name for the life of her, but she remembered what he looked like. “For the record, that’s actual size, Mr. six-foot-three,” she said, handing the paper back to Sable. She got off the couch and started pacing around. It was a nervous habit.

“It is a drawing—I can’t exactly take a picture of one. Science indicates they don’t exist, that’s the human interpretation of what a fairy is. It’s from a movie.” She started pacing faster. According to science, she shouldn’t be here right now. Sable shouldn’t be here. Yes, there was the possibility of other life forms and parallel universes, but who really believed that? She certainly didn’t—not till recently, that is. She took another piece of paper and started drawing Sable, for lack of any other subject.

She glanced at him, partially because of his question, partially for her drawing. “Right. It’s like a story told with moving pictures and sounds. They’re really long and appear in special boxes called televisions. They also have a special building with a big picture screen, called a movie theater.”

“How am I supposed to know what you know? What this world has? I’ve been here for little more than three hours, and two of those were spent huddling in a bloodstained alley,” she said defensively. “How do they relate to it? They just…do. We have empathy and sympathy. I mean, when something sad happens to someone, doesn't that make you feel sorry for them?” she thought about what she just said. "Never mind."

Lynn watched him disappear into his bedroom. “Sorry to disappoint you with my conversation skills,” she muttered, not caring that he could probably hear her. She shook her head. How annoying. Tossing her notebook on the floor beside her, she sat on the couch and tried to piece together how she could’ve gotten here. But anything after two weeks ago was nothing but blurs and fragments. Whatever happened, it had affected her memory.

Sable took a quick shower. Ten minutes after disappearing into his room, he came back out in nothing but a pair of cotton pants with wet hair and a towel draped over his shoulders. He went into the kitchen and opened up a small box that was their version of a refrigerator, getting out a chunk of meat.

It wasn’t too long before Sable reemerged, shirtless and wet from a shower. Despite herself, she blushed again. She was thankful that she had loosened her hair from its bun; it provided adequate cover. She remained silent, refraining from looking in his direction again.

“Yeah, they do.” She glanced upward, to the ceiling. She always thought about seemingly random things. What she was thinking about now is the effect of water on an insect’s wings. If you get their wings wet, they no longer function. Sometimes you get permanent damage. She wondered how Sable got around that—his wings seemed to have a similar structure to a butterfly’s.

Not too regularly, I hope. I’d hate to be stuck here for a long time. She was still upset with this whole situation, but her curiosity urged her to move on and ask questions. “Why do you seek a challenge when hunting for food?” she asked, “On earth, it’s common to go for what is easily attainable and guaranteed…then again, few are lucky enough to even catch a deer.”